


Wild Fire Woman

by Wynn



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Motorcycles, Pool, Sexual Content, older fic uploaded to AO3, some sass and vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynn/pseuds/Wynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Wild fire woman, something you got/ I start to shiver when you do that/ Do that baby, now.</em>
</p>
<p>When Dean Winchester meets Faith Lehane in a bar. Drinking, flirting, slaying, and motorcycle foreplay happen. Excerpt: She sat at a corner table, one booted foot propped up on an empty chair, the other sprawled out, stretched out, the end of a slim line of dark denim. Full breasts under a tank the color of the desert sun, full lips hugging the end of a lit cigarette. She leaned her head back, lifted her hair, heavy and long and loose, off her neck. Then she locked eyes with Dean. She gave him a slow once over as she blew out a trail of smoke, and Dean knew he wouldn’t make it back by ten o’clock like he told Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Fire Woman

**Author's Note:**

> An older fic, originally posted on LJ.

The Mississippi air waged a war with Dean. It sunk into his chest hot and heavy, blanketed his lungs under a wet wool layer of one hundred percent summertime damp. It stuck to his clothes, his skin, caused his skin to stick to his clothes, and his clothes, in turn, to chafe against his skin. It dripped down his spine, clung to his lashes, and turned his hair into a sopping spiky mess. Six hours on the road with a faulty air conditioner and a cranky younger brother only to arrive at the one motel within thirty miles of their destination that they could afford, a motel, naturally, cooled with a solitary ceiling fan that spun on its axis just fast enough to tease Dean with the possibility of relief from the oppressing heat.

He’d noticed the bar on their way into town. There was one like it on every stretch of lonely country road, attached to the highway like a barnacle to a ship, lit with neon beer signs and a flickering fluorescent bulb. A bar, Dean figured, filled with some booths, a pool table or two, and silent surly men that reminded him of his father. 

He saw the bar, but he hadn’t planned on venturing out. He and Sam still had enough money left from his last happy hour adventure, and they had a long day tomorrow, one stretched infinitely longer with an unneeded hangover. But the lure of an ice cold Bud pulled Dean from the motel into the muggy evening, and he made his way down the road to his midsummer night’s oasis. 

He paused at the entrance, opened the door, let the rush of cool air chill his sweat-soaked skin. Then he moved inside, blinking against the smoke and the dark. The place was about a third full, an odd mix of solo drinkers lined along the bar like signposts, their choice of drink and slumped shoulders telling Dean all he needed to know about their lives, and various groups of twos and threes clustered around dim corners. A group of guys hung around the one pool table in the back, swapping insults and missed shots between chugs of whiskey and beer. A girl with too much make-up and too little clothing fawned over a pot-bellied man twice her age, and a set of baby boomer couples sat in a booth near a jukebox that wailed out the very best of Lynyrd Skynyrd. 

Dean crossed over to the bar and slid onto one of the empty stools. He shot the bartender, a woman with a frizzed mop of blonde hair, his best disarming smile and ordered a bottle of Bud. The woman handed it to him without a word and then turned back to the TV that played a rerun of I Love Lucy. Dean let his fingers slide against the bottleneck, slick and cool to the touch, and that’s when he saw her.

She sat at a corner table, one booted foot propped up on an empty chair, the other sprawled out, stretched out, the end of a slim line of dark denim. Full breasts under a tank the color of the desert sun, full lips hugging the end of a lit cigarette. She leaned her head back, lifted her hair, heavy and long and loose, off her neck. Then she locked eyes with Dean. She gave him a slow once over as she blew out a trail of smoke, and Dean knew he wouldn’t make it back by ten o’clock like he told Sam.

Or maybe he would. One of the guys from the back walked over to her, leaned down and whispered in her ear. She held Dean’s gaze as the guy whispered, as his hand swept up over her bare arm to the curve of her neck. The hand lingered there, thumb circling, pulling across pale skin, and still she looked at Dean. Another whisper and then she dropped her hair, took the cigarette from her mouth, and smiled. She looked away as the guy straightened and her eyes followed him as he made his way to the back, as he pushed through a set of swinging doors that led to the bathrooms. Her eyes found Dean again as the doors swung shut, and he watched her stand, watched her leave her cigarette balancing on the mouth of her beer bottle after one last drag. 

She moved like the air, a languid lift of her arms above her head, a slow twist of her neck from side to side. She watched Dean watch her and the smile returned, one that made his hands tighten, his thumb ease down over the soft curve of the glass. He watched her stand and then she moved toward him, hips swaying like she was back in black. 

Dean made a lazy circle on his stool, turning to face her as she approached. She stopped in front of him, stepped into his space; one hand dropped down to his knee while the other reached for his still full beer. Blunt nails traced along the seam of his jeans, up and down, up and then down, and his mouth went dry with possibilities. 

Dean watched her dance with the bottleneck, watched her mouth hover at the edge, brush against the rim in a slow two-step that had him breathing fast. Still she smiled, still her hand moved up and down, then she leaned back and took a long pull. He saw the scar on her throat as she swallowed, felt the heat of her palm, of her hand on his leg through his jeans, and he sat up a little straighter. She watched him down the length of glass, watched him study her, and then she moved into him, chest to chest, and set his half-empty beer down on the bar behind him.

Her hair smelled of tobacco and shone like cinnamon and sugar in the neon light. Her cheek brushed against his, whispered promises of late nights and later mornings, and when she spoke into his ear, he closed his eyes and sighed.

“Watch this.”

He opened his eyes and she was gone, halfway to the back, hands locked behind her head and one last look at Dean before she disappeared through the double doors. He could feel her fingertips on his thigh, could feel her breath, her words, curled around, curled down in his ear, the rough rumble of his Impala made flesh and blood and plush curves poured into tight denim. Dean reached for his beer, drank down what was left, and shivered at the memory of her lips on the glass.

He shivered, and all hell broke loose.

The double doors shot open as something flew through the air and landed on the pool table, scattering balls and cues in all directions. Everyone froze save Lucy and Ethel, and the only sounds Dean heard over the piston thud of his heart were Ronnie and her, a mingled duet of sweet love, free birds, and fucking mistakes goddamn asshole vampires were going to fucking regret.

Dean stood as she twisted on the table. He watched her grab the six ball and fling it at the guy, at the vampire as he pushed back through the double doors. The ball cracked him in the forehead and he fell to the ground with a roar that shook the rest of the patrons out of their drunken stupors and sent them screaming for the exit. Everyone except the rest of the pool party, who dropped their beer and flung themselves fangs first at the now empty table. 

Dean took a step toward the back, his stool in his hands, ready to chuck it at the first available target. Before he could chuck, though, before he could move or think or breathe, she had a broken cue in her hands and three clouds of dust dispersing into the hot Mississippi air. The fourth and final vampire crawled across the dirty floor toward Dean, away from her and the death dealt in half a minute or less. Blood oozed down its forehead and its yellow eyes lifted up to Dean as Dean broke off a piece of the stool and thrust it into the vampire’s chest. It dissolved with a snarl on its face, and Dean tossed his impromptu stake to the floor. 

Just him and Lynyrd and Lucy and her, and Dean looked up, found her leaning against the pool table, found her watching him with eyes dark and breath that came slow and steady and not as though she had just fought with four fucking vampires and lived to tell the tale. Adrenaline ran a race with confusion in Dean’s veins, outpaced only by a lush ache that had him closing the distance between them before he could decide this was a bad idea. 

She stopped him with a modified stake to the heart. His pulse skittered like a record needle under the jagged points of the cue, and he looked at eyes as hot as his own as he said, “I’m not a vampire.”

That smile returned, more of a smirk than a smile, a faint twist of the lips and a, “You’re not. But she is.”

Dean turned and the girl, too much make-up, too little clothing, shot a hard right straight to his jaw. He scrambled for the cue, felt the sharp slap of wood hit his palm as he ducked the punch. The girl kicked at him with one stiletto clad foot, and he grabbed on, yanking and twisting and tossing her to the ground. She roared up as Dean thrust down, and she crumbled to dust as her fingernails scraped along the side of his face. 

Silence again save for the heartbeat banging out Enter Sandman in his chest. Lucy was gone now, replaced by Jeannie in her hot pink little number, and the cue fell from Dean’s hands as he took a moment to remember to breathe. He heard a scrape and a shuffle behind him and glanced over his shoulder. She leaned against the table still, her hands behind her head, that damned smirk on her face, and it made Dean want to throw her down on the nearest flat surface and not come up again until sunrise. 

“Nice reflexes,” she said.

Dean stood and brushed his hands off on his jeans. “Same to you.”

She studied him a moment, lips pursed, gaze flitting from his face to his hands and everywhere in between, and then she lowered her arms and said, “Come on.” 

Dean watched her push off the table, watched her walk across the bar to her abandoned beer and cigarette. “Where?”

She looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

He thought it should, but he knew it didn’t. He knew it the minute she looked at him and didn’t flinch. Still, he hesitated. 

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Again, does it matter?”

“Yeah. It does.”

She glanced down at her bottle, picked it up, turned it over, and then put it back down. Her eyes found his. She licked her lips and said, “It’s Faith.” A pause and then, “Happy now?”

“Pleased as punch.” Dean grinned at her and rocked back on his heels. She rolled her eyes and turned away, but Dean saw the crooked little smile she tried to hide behind her hair. “Aren’t you going to ask me mine?”

“You mean you’re not just gonna tell me?”

“Only if you want to know.”

She cast him a sidelong glance from around her hair, and Dean met her gaze steady. She stared and then shook her head as she said, “Shoot.”

“It’s Dean.”

A slow nod, another lick of her lips, and then she turned toward the door, pausing at the threshold until Dean took a step forward. Another step and then another and she passed out of the bar into the moonlit southern sky. 

The air sidled up to Dean as he stepped outside; it wove around him like a dog circling ground and made its home down deep in his bones. He searched the parking lot, found Faith next to a motorcycle as slim and dark as herself. He crossed the lot, stopped a few feet from the bike, and watched as she climbed on, leg swinging over the seat like a pro, and he let himself appreciate the view. 

She cocked her head, looked back at him, and caught him staring. “It’s even better up close, you know.”

Chest to chest, soft lips and busy fingers, a whisper to watch and a teasing promise. Dean remembered. He knew. 

He stepped up to the bike, eased a leg up and over, and settled one hand low on her hip. Pressed up flush to her back, fingertips gliding down her thigh, up and down, up and then down, and the memory of those hips in motion sent his blood straight down to his dick. 

The bike fired up under them, rumbled through Dean’s chest, and he tightened his hold on Faith. She rubbed against him as she settled on the bike, and Dean closed his eyes and prayed she would do it again. Then he opened his eyes and prayed that she wouldn’t so he would make it to wherever the hell she wanted them to go. 

She left the parking lot, hit the highway, and tore off down the road, zero to sixty in ten seconds flat. He ducked his head down, pressed his cheek to the top of her head and let her hair stream past, wild curls whipping at his neck on the curves. Muscles taut beneath his hands, Dean searched out the dips and the planes, the hard lines and soft slopes of her body. Two fingers beneath her shirt, warm skin, supple with a scar going crossways that he traced with light touches. Floating down, he teased the skin at the edge of her jeans. She slowed, he slid forward, and she answered prayer number one at sixty miles an hour. 

He burned like the tires on the road, like the night sky past his eyes as they flew through the country to fuck who cares. He left south and went north, found soft skin and slick satin and a full palm. He flicked his thumb over her nipple and the bike swerved, skirted the edge of asphalt, and Dean heard a slow hiss of a fuck as the engine roared and they went faster, faster. 

Another flick, another fuck, and Dean crossed jeans and leather with his free hand and found hot, hot heat beneath the seams. Her head fell back and Dean licked at the soft skin behind her ear, nipped once, followed the line down to her pulse where it beat, beat, beat beneath his lips. Another flick, another rub, another kiss, another fuck, and they veered off the road into the lot of a small inn. 

The bike jerked to a stop at the corner of the lot, and Dean kicked at the stand as Faith turned around and crawled into his lap. She wound an arm around his neck and sank down, rolled forward, and gave him the best lap dance of his life. He hissed at the pressure in his jeans, at the rub of denim, at the feel of her, at the friction and the heat, and it spread through his body, a fever from tip to toe that had him squirming in his skin and reaching for hers. 

His hands found hips and he jerked forward as he pulled back, bringing them closer, closer. And the pressure. And the feel. His eyes rolled back in his head as she bit at his jaw, as she slid slick lips against his skin, swept firm hands down his back, up and around, down under his shirt, a flick of her thumb, a tease and a twist, and that’s when his phone rang. 

“Fuck.”

She chuckled in his ear, laugh dark like the night. “Girlfriend?”

“No. Brother.”

“Don’t answer then.”

“He, ah, fuck, he wouldn’t call, he wouldn’t, goddamn, he wouldn’t call unless he had to.”

A roll of her hips, casual, light, and he felt her fingers fumble with his fly. “Then answer. Don’t mind me.”

“You’re kind of-”

“Answer the phone.”

He found himself reaching, twisting, searching his back pocket for the chirping little menace, instinct driving him at that tone. Her other hand joined her first, palm flat against his dick as she popped the button, and he answered with a whispered prayer that he wouldn’t lose it right in his brother’s ear.

“Yeah, Sam?”

“Dean.” A sigh of relief and then, “Where are you?”

“Why-” His zipper eased down, down, slow, so slow, and she yanked on his shirt, kissed his collarbone, licked at the hollow of his throat. “Why, ah, do you ask?”

“Because there are about thirty cops at the bar you just went to. So either you’re in jail or-”

Dean didn’t catch the rest as the phone fell from his ear as he felt first contact, skin to skin, her fingers seeking and finding and wrapping around his cock like the morning sun, or maybe he just thought that because light exploded before his eyes at the first stroke.

He heard his name called once, twice, once far away and tinny, once close by and rough, and he opened his eyes to find Faith, her eyes on him, his phone at her ear. She held his gaze, held his dick in a grip firm and fast, and she mouthed watch this at him as she said into the phone, “Dean’s brother, right?”

Face flushed in the moonlight, eyes heavy but not soft, heavy and sharp and focused on Dean as she talked to Sam and brought him off in the middle of the parking lot in front of God and his brother. 

“No, Dean’s good. There was some trouble at the bar, nothing big. He decided to walk me home.”

And he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, tension curling low in his back and his belly, fingers digging into her hips as she laughed at whatever his brother said and twisted her hand on the down stroke.

An arch of an eyebrow and a thumb across the head and a, “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

And the sky stretched wide above him, stars bright, not faded like the freckles on her skin, and his boots scraped against gravel as she licked her lips and squeezed and pulled and laughed and looked, and he jerked into her hand and came with a ground out fuck and a hand tangled deep in her hair.

Another laugh as her hand eased down the pressure and the speed, and through his haze, he heard her say, “What? Oh, nothing. Dean just tripped on a pothole.”

A strangled groan of a laugh escaped him at that, and he managed to open one eye and look. He found her staring at him, eyes bright with sex and triumph and that hand, that fucking hand at her mouth, and he forgot how to breathe as she flicked out her tongue to the wet tip of her thumb.

“Fucking hell, woman. Are you trying to kill me?”

“Not yet. Here’s your brother. He wants to say goodbye.”

She handed him the phone as she tucked him back in his jeans, and Dean clicked off the phone without another word, not trusting his capacity to speak with her hands anywhere near his dick. She laughed as she buttoned his fly and said, “Younger brother?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds cute.”

She slid off the bike at that and stretched her hands above her head, flashing Dean a quick glimpse of flat stomach before she bent over and flashed him again. Then she straightened, patted his chest, and said, “Room 313 whenever you’re ready.” Then she ambled away from the bike, hips swaying like he shook all night long, her hands behind her head, one last look at Dean before she disappeared up the stairs.

Dean took a moment to remember to breathe, and he slid his phone back into his pocket. He shivered at the memory of her hands and her hips, at her eyes and that smile, at the way she looked at him and didn’t flinch.

Then he eased off the bike and followed her up the stairs.   
…………

end


End file.
